


IKEA

by resilient_rose



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose
Summary: David wants fancy furniture. Patrick says they can't afford it. The solution? IKEA. Flirting and fighting ensue.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 27
Kudos: 96
Collections: Schitt's Creek Season 7





	IKEA

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSeason7](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSeason7) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> 703 - David and Patrick go to IKEA

Patrick blinks as he wakes up. It’s still dark -- 2:54 on the clock -- and the crickets are chirping in the creek beside their house. He rolls over, reaching to pull David into his arms. But David’s side of the bed is empty and the door to the hall is wide open.

“David?”

No answer. He gets out of bed, jogs downstairs, and finds David in the kitchen. He’s got his tablet in one hand, a coffee mug in the other, black glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“David?"

David fumbles the tablet, startled, then smiles. “Hi.”

Patrick yawns and rubs his face. “Why are you up?”

David sets his cup aside and reaches for a pen and paper. “Because I can’t sleep in a house that is this tragically under-furnished.”

_God, not again._

“You slept in a motel for five years,” says Patrick.

“Yes. And now I’m in a house, with my husband, and I still feel like I am sleeping in a motel.” David pauses to write something down. “C’mere, look at this…”

“David…”

“Come here!”

Patrick nods to himself with a long-suffering smile. He joins David by the kitchen table. David scrolls his tablet and brings up a picture of a couch.

“Okay, kiln-dried hardwood, 100% goose feathers, vintage leather, custom armrests--”

“David. It’s $4600. That’s more than my car cost.”

“That's because your car is a piece of garbage, Patrick!"

“We can’t afford that.”

David groans, tossing the tablet onto the nearest seat. He grabs Patrick’s hands and tugs him toward their couch. Patrick’s eyes widen. 

“What are you--”

David pushes him onto the couch and gets on top of him. 

“This,” he says, his feet sticking over the edge, “is not correct. _This_ ,” he goes on, elbowing the backrest, “is not correct. _This_ \--” He pats the armrest, which is angled under Patrick’s head. “Is not correct!”

“You want to spend $4600 on a couch because we can’t make out on the one we currently have?”

“Yes.”

“Even though we have a bed?"

“Oh my God. The bed. The bed is another conversation.”

“I don’t think this is too bad.”

“Well,” David whispers. “I do. And--”

“Our bed’s not too bad either. Speaking of our bed--”

“Patrick. I need you to do something for me.”

Patrick lifts to kiss him. “What?”

David puts a finger on his lips. “Mm. No. I need you to picture how good this would be if we were on a couch we both fit on.”

“Or I could remind you how good it is like this.”

David eyes him, gets up, and returns to his tablet. “I also found a set of dining chairs.”

Patrick blinks in surprise, then follows David to the table. He wraps his arms around him from behind. “David.”

David keeps scrolling. “Mhm?”

“We can’t afford any of this and you know that.”

David grumbles and leans his head back. 

“And that couch looks really uncomfortable.”

David scoffs. “That _sectional_ is a Dresden modular with high-density Lux foam and seat warmers.”

Patrick doesn’t know what half of that means. “Sure.”

He gives David a squeeze, then reaches for the list he’s written: _sectional, coffee table, 2 desks, chairs, runner, area rug, lamps for kitchen/dining/entry._ He smiles faintly.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “How about this? IKEA. Tomorrow. I bet we can get everything on that list for under $4600.” 

David turns around to look at him. “Patrick. I would rather become a trapeze artist.”

“Well, I can arrange that, but--”

“ _IKEA_?”

It’s like he suggested searching for furniture at Chernobyl.

“It’s that or an estate sale, David. Do you really want to make out on a couch some old guy died on?”

David makes a face. “We’re already doing that! God knows where that couch was, we got it from _Ray_ \--”

“I’ll tell you what. If we spend over $4600 at IKEA, which we won’t, then I’ll watch whatever movies you want for a month.”

David whines, tipping his head back, hanging on him. Then he murmurs, “Even _Barbarella_?”

“Yes, David.”

David nods. “Fine. _Fine_.”

“Really?” asks Patrick.

“Yes. At least they have meatballs.”

“Really good meatballs.”

“Like _surprisingly_ good meatballs…”

Patrick chuckles and takes David's glasses off. David smiles at the gesture.

“Three in the morning too early for contacts?” asks Patrick.

“Mhm, yes. And I didn’t want to turn on the bathroom light and wake you up.”

“Because you care about my sleep schedule or so you could order a couch we can’t afford without talking to me?”

“It’s a _sectional,_ and have I ever cared about your sleep schedule?”

“No,” Patrick says, leaning into a kiss. 

***

Patrick is gone when David wakes up the next day.

Not surprising. By 10, he’s usually taken a walk, made breakfast, done the dishes, and completed some mundane task like repairing the toaster. He’s still a morning person, despite David’s attempts to rewire his early-bird tendencies. 

David drifts to the kitchen, half-asleep, and flicks the coffee maker on. He selects an elegant ceramic mug and snuggles into his hoodie while he waits. Then he smiles, noticing a note taped to the tea shelf.

_D--_

_Be back around 10. Make something for the road?_

_Love you_

He presses his lips together, charmed by the note; he doesn’t know why Patrick leaves notes instead of texting, but he always has and he adores it. But he frowns. Something for the road?

Right. IKEA. Maybe he should stop pacing the house in the wee hours, designing what they can’t afford. Maybe if he wasn’t so sleep-deprived, he wouldn’t have agreed to redecorate their house at _IKEA_. Shudder.

He folds the note, pocketing it, and pulls out his phone to look up breakfast ideas on Pinterest. (Marriage quickly made him _that_ person.) He finds a recipe for egg muffins that looks simple enough, refreshes his coffee, and starts to gather ingredients. He’s just put the muffins in the oven when a truck pulls into the drive. Not just any truck -- Roland’s. He groans and hugs his coffee, preparing, but Patrick gets out of the truck instead.

“Got the truck for the day,” he calls, hanging his jacket as he comes in. “Should fit everything. I’ve got some furniture ties somewhere…”

David makes a face, taking another mug from the cupboard, and fills it with coffee for Patrick.

“Can you even drive stick?” he murmurs. “I mean that in an automotive context.”

Patrick leans on the counter beside him. “Is there another context?”

“Mm, there is, and you’re already very good at that,” says David, selecting an apple from the fruit basket. “Like a...Grand Prix driver…”

“Think that’s the closest you’ve gotten to a sports reference.”

“That was a sex reference, but thank you.”

Patrick chuckles, then kisses the side of his mouth and leans on him as they drink their coffee. 

“What are you making? Smells good.”

David smirks, cradling his coffee closer. “It’s a surprise.”

“Well, can I make sure the surprise doesn’t burn while you get dressed? Because IKEA’s only open until 6, it’s an hour drive, and if we spend half an hour in every department, we’ll barely--”

“Mm. Did you put together an itinerary or…?”

Patrick pulls several folded papers from his back jeans pocket. David falters.

“Oh. You. You did.”

“Stopped by the motel to print these,” he says, smacking the papers on his hand. He unfolds them. “Got a schedule, a map of the showroom, a comparative list of furniture prices, directions…”

David nods again. “Mm.” He refills his coffee and drifts toward the stairs. He points at the oven. “Those need twelve more minutes. Sprinkle some cheese on at the end. And paprika.”

Patrick nods. “Okay.” He sips his coffee and adds, “Oh, and David?”

David turns halfway up the stairs. “Yes?”

Patrick smirks. “This is going to be fun.”

***

David returns twenty minutes later wearing a black cashmere sweater with a splatter of white leaves across the front, a slouched cardigan with specks of silver woven through the fabric, dark pants cut a little tighter than usual, and his precious pair of oversized sneakers by...some designer Patrick can’t recall. Alexander something.

He looks nice. Date-night nice. Patrick gestures at him to point this out.

“I need to _look_ like I’m above buying something from IKEA,” David says, adjusting one of his rings.

“But you’re not actually above it.” 

“No, I am,” he replies, joining him by the stove. “But you aren’t, and I love you, so…”

“Wow. You know what that is?”

David makes a face. 

“That’s a compromise.”

“Okay. This is not a compromise. A _compromise_ means both parties give something up. What are you giving up?”

“About $5000,” Patrick says, gesturing with the price list.

“That’s our _pooled_ money, Patrick, and I am giving up something that money can’t buy.”

“What’s that, David?”

“My dignity?”

Patrick nods. Then he takes a fork and pops a few muffins out of the pan. David twitches his lips, trying to appear annoyed, but he smiles.

“So these…” he murmurs, “have potatoes, cheese, scallions…” He pauses as Patrick tries one. “Good?”

Patrick nods, eyes bright and warm. “Really good.” He smiles and David expects him to say something sweet, but he adds, “Didn’t think this was possible after the first time you cooked for me--”

“Okay. Let’s not relive that.”

“I like that memory,” says Patrick.

“That’s only because the firefighters flirted with you...” David replies, wrapping a few more muffins in foil.

They pack the rest of the snacks for the road, then hurry to the truck in the rain; usually David would get in as fast as possible, but he stops at the sight of the back seat. It’s littered with to-go containers, coffee sleeves, empty creamers, napkins, toothpicks, a diaper...

“This is better than it was,” Patrick says. “At least the front is clean.”

David nods in alarm. “Mhm. So no one else in this town owns a truck?”

“Oh, no, plenty of people, but if you narrow that down to the people we know well enough to ask and the people we haven’t offended--”

“You mean the people _I_ haven’t offended.”

“No, I mean we, because if Ronnie didn’t hate me, we’d be in a ‘19 Durango with heated seats.”

David nods. “Maybe you should start losing games.”

“Not happening,” Patrick replies, getting in the driver’s seat. “And that isn’t why she hates me.”

“If this is still about the tiles--”

“It’s about what the tiles represent. Will you get in?”

“Unclear,” whispers David, glancing around.

There’s a camouflage air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror and a toy tractor, no doubt Roland Jr’s. It smells like greasy potatoes and cheap cologne. 

“So…” David says, “next weekend, we are inviting Ronnie over for a very nice dinner, and you are going to explain that you’re not an...entitled elitist.”

“Is that what you think the tiles represent?” Patrick asks.

David gestures in annoyance and doesn't reply.

Patrick nods at him. “Your sweater’s getting wet, by the way.”

David hisses and gets in the truck. He runs a hand through his hair to collect the stray raindrops, then leans back. 

“Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Patrick, starting the car. He adds as they pull out of the drive, “What _do_ you think it is?”

“Well, when I first met you, I thought you were very snippy. And if I hadn’t started a business with you, I may still have that impression.”

“So we’ve got to get Ronnie to start a business with me.” Patrick adjusts the heat as they turn toward the highway, adding after a moment, “You wouldn’t still have that impression.”

David smirks, reaching into the snack bag for a muffin. “Why’s that?”

“If we didn’t open the store, I would have found a way to spend time with you. I would have…applied for a job at the motel.”

“My God, well, very glad it didn’t happen that way. Maybe I would have asked for a job with Ray.”

Patrick smiles. “Even though you thought I was snippy?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like you. I just _also_ thought you were snippy.”

“Maybe you liked that I was snippy. Which I wasn’t, by the way.”

“How would you describe it? Smug? Snide?”

“No,” says Patrick, merging onto the highway. He slides his thumb on the wheel, recalling. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what I said that day. I remember everything you said, but…”

David squeezes his knee. “Mhm. And do you remember all the voicemails or…?”

“Word for word. I still have those.”

“Okay,” David says. “You should not have told me that because now I’m going to drop your phone in the toilet.”

“Too bad I backed them up on OneDrive.”

“God!"

***

They arrive at IKEA after an hour. David lingers by the automatic doors, staring through them with a distant frown.

He gulps. “I need a moment."

“David, this is IKEA, not an aerial adventure course.”

“Mhm. If I do one of those again, can we go to Ralph Lauren instead?”

Patrick pushes him inside. “No.”

A woman tries to squeeze past them. “Excuse me? You’re blocking the door!"

“Oh, this is a door?" David whispers. "I thought this was the waiting room for Hell.”

“David.” Patrick steps aside to let the woman pass. “Sorry.”

She disappears with a scowl. Patrick looks at David, unamused, and David smiles. He steps closer, playing with Patrick’s collar. 

“Am I in trouble? Should I wait in the car?”

“David.”

David tilts his head and thumbs Patrick’s top button. He raises his brows. “Maybe if I cause a scene...”

“You are not getting out of this.”

David hums. “Even if I get us banned for life?”

“No,” says Patrick, taking his hands. “Let’s go.” 

They go up the escalator to the showroom. David hugs himself, almost pouting, and frowns at the smell of cheap vinyl. He slows as they approach the showroom. Patrick’s far too prepared for today. He’s wearing a backpack. A _backpack._ He probably brought jackets. Water. Granola bars. He’s approaching IKEA the way he would a long hike, which is unfortunately appropriate given the square-footage of this hellscape--

“Are you coming?”

He hurries, joining Patrick as they drift into a sea of couches and armchairs. 

Not everything here is terrible. None of it’s good, but some of it’s workable with the right lighting, a strategically placed throw-blanket…

“Told you it wasn’t that bad,” says Patrick.

David doesn’t reply, touching the nearest sofa like it might bite him. It isn’t Italian damask, but…

He gives in. “Is this the only color they have?” 

“There you go, David, baby steps.”

“Don’t push it.”

Patrick kneels to glance at the product info on the side of the couch. “No. There’s also Arctic white--”

“Perfect.”

“We’re not getting a white couch.”

“This,” says David, stepping around the sofa to caress the backrest, “is a sofa. Not a couch. And yes, we are.”

“So when Stevie spills red wine on this--”

“Maybe Stevie has to drink white from now on.”

“Yeah, she’d go for that. It also comes in black.”

David considers, grumpy, then moves to the next row of sofas. He examines several, arms folded, suddenly serious and discerning. Patrick follows, pausing every few minutes to check prices and color options, and they stop at a large leather sectional. 

David runs his hand over the back. “Tell me this isn’t too expensive.”

“It’s not,” says Patrick, slinging his backpack off one shoulder. “But it might be too big.”

He takes out a measuring tape. David stares, unsure if he’s impressed or disturbed, and Patrick kneels to unfurl it along the bottom of the sofa. 

“Grab that end. Go to the other side. No, the bottom. There. How long is it?"

David huffs. “3 and ¾ meters.”

“It would fit if we moved the plant stand.”

David lets go of the tape measure so it snaps into place, then flops onto the sofa to try it out. He glances at Patrick, pleasantly surprised. He stretches his toes, checking the length, and scooches over. Then he turns and pats the empty space beside him. Patrick hesitates, but shifts onto the sofa, the little spoon.

“What do you think?” David murmurs, hugging him. 

“I think it would be better with pillows.”

David crooks his arm under Patrick’s head. “How’s that?”

“Better.” Patrick turns over his shoulder, catching David’s gaze, and smiles. “Okay, pretty nice.”

“Very roomy. Maybe we should…” He touches his lips to the shell of Patrick’s ear. “...test it out…”

Patrick untangles himself and gets up. “Not getting arrested for public indecency, David.” He takes a notepad and pen out of his back pocket. “What’s the number?”

David hangs over the side of the sofa and to read it, “8756...it’s the…” He frowns. “Kivick? Khy-vack?”

“Just the number’s fine.”

“Ky...vin--” 

Patrick pockets his pen and pulls David to his feet. “Four hours till they close.” He checks his list. “Coffee table’s next.”

David blinks, dizzy. “My God…”

“Keep up,” says Patrick, ahead of him toward the next showroom.

David takes Patrick’s hand to slow him down and peeks at the list in his hand.

“Did you number that according to the store layout?”

“Yep.”

“Aren’t you efficient.”

“One of us has to be.”

David glances at him, vexed, as he stops in front of a nondescript coffee table.

“This would match,” Patrick says.

“No, I want something distinctive. Like our current coffee table, but bigger. I called Jake but his prices are astronomical.”

“We could offer him something other than money.”

“Patrick, we’re not prostituting ourselves for a table.”

“Is it prostitution if we want to?”

“ _Do_ we want to? And yes, it is.”

They look together at a coffee table with a concrete finish. David bites his bottom lip, sliding a finger along the edge.

“Is this too industrial?” he murmurs.

“It’s reversible…” says Patrick, more intrigued by that than its potential industriality. He feels the top of it. “Nothing would leave rings on this.”

“I have never left a ring on anything--”

“Tell that to my piano.”

David presses his lips together; he doesn’t have any defense here, so he replies, “Okay, that was a very boozy night, and you were singing to me, so forgive me if I left my whiskey on your piano. Which was second-hand, by the way, and already _very_ damaged.”

“It was actually in pretty good condition, David.”

“Well, when you see that ring, just think about how much your husband supports your music--”

“Weren’t you in there just because you wanted to sit on top of the piano while I played? Yeah, you said you wanted to feel like you were in a...what did you call it?”

David wrinkles his nose at the memory; sometimes he really sounds like his mother when he drinks. “Smoky pre-war discotheque?”

“That was it,” says Patrick, stooping to check the price of the table. “This isn’t bad…”

David walks around the table, considering the quality of the concrete effect, checking the angle and structure of the legs. 

“Okay, no, this is too modern...this will make the sofa look cold whereas something like this…” He puts his hand on a nearby wood table. “...will warm it up, and tie it in with the dining table, _and_ the nook…”

They move to the office section after jotting down the number, slowing down, holding hands. David points out various design crimes to make Patrick laugh, and Patrick murmurs about what they forgot to write down -- pillows for the sofa, a rug for the bathroom, extra silverware. David catalogs all this as they drift into the next department.

“So...two desks...”

“One’ll work,” says Patrick. “I get up at 6 and you stay up till 2.”

“You want to timeshare a desk?”

Patrick nods. “Yep.”

“So you want me to agree to desk decor?”

“What did you have in mind?” 

David opens his mouth, about to snap at him, but he stops. He knows exactly what he’d put on his desk: two potted ferns, a photo of his family, and his favorite wedding picture -- the one where he’s tipping his head back, laughing as Patrick stares at him with a fierce but tender smile. They were outside town hall, tucked under the eves as the rain poured, sneaking a moment alone as _At Last_ played on the faulty speakers; they were both tipsy and euphoric, grabby and lost in each other. 

He doesn’t remember why he was laughing; he doesn’t know how the lens caught their profiles in that warm light. He’s just thankful that he was, that it did. He glances at Patrick. 

“The picture we both like. From our wedding. The one where--”

Patrick smiles. “I know which one.”

“Mhm. And ferns. And another jade oil diffuser from our store.”

“Which you’ll buy, not steal, so I don’t have to write it off as _other expenses_.”

“I think _steal_ is a bit strong.”

“Wrongfully remove?”

“Mm.”

“Smuggle into your car when your husband isn’t looking?”

“No.”

“Lovingly relocate?”

“There you go.”

Patrick shakes his head and pulls David to the next desk. David smirks, eyeing him from the side, and puts an arm around his waist.

“You were actually my fiance when I took that, not my husband, so.”

“It’s hard to keep track of what you take and when you take it, David.”

“I haven’t taken _that_ much. And we own all of that.”

“David. It’s consignment. We don’t own it.”

“Okay, I actually know that, and you know I do. But sometimes I pretend I don’t so you pull out the big business words. That’s how you got me.”

“That’s how I got you?"

“Mhm. Reading your grant applications was extremely erotic.”

“I’m worried you’re not kidding.”

David raises his brows, moving to the next desk. “Oh. I’m not.” 

He drags his fingers along the desk, glancing back. He means to smirk, but he speaks instead. 

“Actually…” He breathes in. “Actually, those applications made me cry, because the way you wrote them made me realize you believed in me.”

“I did believe in you,” Patrick says. “Always have.”

David swallows, nodding. He’s not going to get choked up in IKEA, so he points at the desk in front of them. “ _T_ _hat_ is too small for your computer. And me. I can’t sit on that.”

Patrick glances at him. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Honey, someone has to stop you when you’re on your sixth consecutive hour of fantasy baseball forecasting--”

“But that software is so fun…”

David recalls peeking over his shoulder at a spreadsheet of a thousand stats; he blacked out when he started talking about r-squared. What kind of monster combines sports and math? 

“Do you know what’s more fun?” David asks, moving him to the next aisle. “Finding a desk that isn’t the size of a matchbox...”

They walk through the next set of desks. David eventually sits on top of a sprawling cherry credenza, leaning back like a Madison Avenue executive. 

“ _This_ has potential--”

An IKEA attendant cuts in. “Sir? Please don’t sit on the desks.”

David simpers and doesn't move. "Mm. Do they pay you extra to be a killjoy?"

The attendant flinches and walks away. David hops off the desk, satisfied, and continues toward a chic walnut armoire. 

He glances at Patrick. “Would you call this an _espresso_ brown or a _mink_ brown?”

“I don’t know, David. Why don’t you pick the desk? Not like you’d listen to me anyway. I’ll find a chair.”

David gestures to explain why this plan is wrong. “No, see, I need a specific chair because of my back--”

“Your back hurts because you never exercise.”

“No, my back hurts because our bed was inspired by the Spanish Inquisition!”

Patrick turns, shaking his head. “Princess and the Pea over here--”

“Um, I heard that, and you know I’m right--”

“We’ll get a topper, David! I’m finding a chair!”

David grimaces, watching him go. He nods to himself, then pulls out his phone, unwilling to pick a desk by himself. He facetimes Stevie, who answers with a grumpy expression, walking through a department store.

“Hi!” he says with a bright, artificial laugh. “I’m in IKEA and I’m pushing my marriage to its _very_ limit.”

Stevie blinks. “You went to IKEA?”

“Against my will. Patrick netgunned me and threw me in the back of Roland’s truck. Which, by the way, is disgusting.”

“Sorry, I’m still trying to figure out why you would go to IKEA when your marriage was going so well--”

“I’m confused as well, Stevie!” He glances across the showroom at Patrick, who’s talking to an employee about a mesh swivel chair that’s absolutely unacceptable. “I may have been a _bit_ impolite to an employee.”

“I can’t believe that,” she replies. 

“Mm. He’s _this_ close to yelling at me.”

“The employee?”

“No, Patrick,” says David, observing his husband as he pulls another horrid chair off the wall. “Oh my God. He’s doing this on purpose.”

“What?”

“Picking an office chair that looks like it belongs in a...cubicle.”

“Oh no. Not a cubicle.”

"Okay. If you aren’t going to help, I’ll call Alexis.”

“I’m not going to help,” she says. She moves her phone to show him where she is. “But now that you have me, you could help _me_ pick a dress.”

“Ooh, what’s the occasion?” he asks, expression turning playful. 

“It’s a business meeting, but it’s at a hotel bar, so I need to look sexy _and_ professional--”

“Okay, obviously you’re asking the right person. So, find something black -- where are you? Don’t say Blouse Barn.”

“No, no, I’m at Frocks 4 Less.” 

“Um, ew--”

He pauses when Patrick rejoins him. “Did you pick a chair that I’ll have to accidentally break?”

Patrick doesn’t reply; his expression is impassive, but his eyes say more. He’s heated and out of patience. David winces. 

“Is the divorce going to be as classy as the wedding?” Stevie asks after a testy pause. “Like, will there be appetizers, because--”

“David’s supposed to be picking a desk but instead of doing that, he’s talking to you.”

“Um, you abandoned me to pick a chair that looks like it fell off the back of a discount office supply truck!”

“You’re the one who needed something ergonomic--”

“This is like watching a car crash,” says Stevie, delighted.

“Ergonomics do not exclude style! Just ask Brabbu--”

“David, I don’t know what that is.”

“That is why _I_ should be picking the chair!”

Patrick looks at Stevie again. “He wanted a couch that cost $4600.”

“That’s because he’s insane,” she says softly.

David huffs. “Okay, Patrick wants to spend less than $4600 total, and it was a _sectional_ \--”

“David! Say sectional one more time!”

David looks at him with wild eyes. “ _Sectional!_ ”

Patrick grabs David’s phone. “Okay. Bye Stevie.”

“Ooh now he’s really in troub--”

Patrick hangs up and looks at David with raised brows. David wrinkles his nose, sensing he crossed a line. 

“Would...would you be up for meatballs now, or…?”

Patrick looks down. 

“I’ll -- I’ll at least try the chair.”

“No, forget the chair.”

David holds still, then murmurs, “So what is this about? Because it’s not about the chair.”

Patrick glances away, hands on his hips, and breathes out. Then he softens, catches David’s gaze, and says, “Do you wish we had more money?”

“Yes,” says David, careful. “But that isn’t why I’m with you.”

“I know that, but…” He folds his arms, leaning his head back. “But I want to be able to give you whatever you want.”

“Okay,” says David, very soft. “If I wanted to be with someone who could give me whatever I want, I would have flown to New York and debased myself with the first rich guy I could find. I am very much _not_ above that. But that isn’t what I want. I want you.”

Patrick looks at him, unspeaking. 

“I want you, and this shitty desk, and that horrible chair. I want _you_ and the bills and the mortgage and the long nights--”

He stops as Patrick drifts into him, hugging him tightly. “Okay.”

“Mm.” He kisses the side of his head. “I love you.”

Patrick tucks his face against his neck. “I love you too. Doesn’t change how difficult you’re being.”

David nods. “Mhm.”

“Was that an acknowledgment or…?”

“No. I think I’ve been magnanimous.”

Patrick lets him go and sighs. “Okay. Is this the desk you want?”

“No, but I don’t see any desk I want, so…” He makes a face and delicately pats the desk. “Maybe it will look better once it’s in our office...if we keep the lights off…”

Patrick shakes his head and writes down the number. They move to kitchen and dining, selecting several chairs and a paisley rug, then into a huge hall with beds and headboards. David’s eyes flit from sign to sign and he pauses, debating. Then he grabs Patrick’s hand and tugs him toward the king section.

“David…”

“Just try a few with me. So we know what we like.”

“I like our bed.”

“Patrick, the best part of our bed is me when I’m in it.”

“Can’t disagree with that, but a bed’s not on our list.”

“Patrick, the bed--”

“Is perfectly functional.”

David pops his brows. “You are not a good judge of beds! You thought the bed in Ray’s room for rent was fine, despite it being there through God knows how many tenants, including Roland’s brother! We still sleep on that bed! You actually _relocated_ that bed to your apartment, then to our house!”

Patrick shrugs, unconcerned. “It looked clean.”

“Looks are deceiving! You look straight. You look like you would own a car that doesn’t _actively_ shed parts when you drive over 30 miles per hour. But here you are, married to a man, driving a tin can--”

“Okay, David? We’ll try three and then you’re going to help me pick side tables.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“ _Fine_.”

Thirty minutes later, they stare at the ceiling together, contemplating the cloud-softness of a memory-foam platform bed. 

“So this was a mistake,” says David.

“Yep,” says Patrick, thumbing his knuckles.

“How much is this?”

“Too much.”

“What if we just lived here?”

“Okay with me.”

David turns, smirking, and slides his hand up Patrick's chest. “Mm.” He tucks his face against Patrick’s shoulder. “Are we above robbery?”

“No,” says Patrick, settling deeper in the mattress. 

“Mhm. Will you be my getaway driver?”

Patrick laughs, glances at him, then laughs harder.

“What?” asks David.

“I’m just -- I’m picturing you running from the warehouse with a king mattress tucked under your arm like a briefcase--”

David tugs him closer, laughing too; then his eyes flicker, warm and devoted, and he breathes out. He kisses Patrick’s shoulder and twitches his thumb on his collarbone.

“Do you believe me now?”

“That our bed’s lousy? Yeah David. Still don’t think that’s why your back hurts.”

“Mm, it is. Maybe we could take the money we were going to use on my massage therapist and use it on this.”

“David, I’m your massage therapist.”

David bites his bottom lip, eyes flashing. “Yes you are…”

He drags his fingers from clavicle to hip to--

Patrick catches his straying hand and stares at him. 

David blinks. “Okay, I _may_ have forgotten we’re in public. That’s how good this bed is.” 

Patrick replies with a breathy laugh and shakes his head. David smirks, reaching to thumb his earlobe.

“So…”

“So?”

“ _So_.”

“David, if you’re asking if we’re getting the bed, we’re not.”

David sighs, turning on his back. 

“But next year...after the expansion…”

David glances at him and nods. “We could get two.”

“Or ten. Push them together.”

“Mhm, cover the house with them…”

Patrick laughs, then leans to kiss him. David tries to keep him close but he shifts to his feet and pulls David with him. They send a last glance at the bed, then tangle their fingers and walk toward the showroom exit. 

***

“Make me stop,” David mumbles, on his third slice of almond cake. 

Patrick glances up from his notes; he’s budgeting while David samples everything in the dessert case. 

“I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do, David.”

David sucks some whipped cream off his thumb. “You made me come here...” 

“Do we need this many chairs?” asks Patrick, returning to his notes.

“We wouldn’t if you didn’t have fifty cousins.”

“I have twenty-three cousins.”

“God.”

Patrick crosses something off. David leans back, reaching for a cup of crummy-but-comforting coffee, and watches him with a tiny smile.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing. Just making sure we got everything.”

“Mhm.” David’s suspicious but he doesn’t pursue it. “So what are we at?”

“About four grand.” He scans the page and writes something else; then he tugs David’s plate across the table and steals a bite of cake. “$4208.98 if we get the extra chairs.” Then he frowns, checking his math. “No, wait…”

David smiles and gets to his feet. He takes Patrick’s empty cup and pauses by him, swiping his fingers under his chin so he looks up. He smirks at his doe-eyed look of surprise.

“Tea?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

David nods, walking to a station with overworked coffee machines, and dispenses some boiling water; he opens a tea sachet and glances at Patrick, then sinks in the image -- Patrick at a cafeteria table, surrounded by empty dessert plates, expression earnest and uncomplaining as he tallies the furniture, furniture for the house he eyed on every drive to work, the house he kept in mind for years because of one comment. Their house. 

David looks away, too soft, and finds a sugar packet. He shakes his head against another urge to cry. IKEA is not the place for that. Then he returns to the table, quiet, and sets the tea down. 

Patrick looks at him, gaze lingering, and starts to smile.

“Not a word,” says David, tearful.

Patrick nods, but David feels his gaze while they finish their coffee and tea, and he can’t help smiling every time they meet eyes. 

***

They head for the warehouse twenty minutes later. David pauses at the dollies, wondering why they would supply those when the employees do the heavy lifting. Then Patrick grabs a dolly and walks toward the first aisle.

David gathers that they have to load all the furniture themselves. He pauses, resisting the urge to cast himself onto the concrete floor, and collects himself. Then he trots to catch up and takes the list Patrick hands him.

“How do we lift an entire sofa?” he asks.

Patrick glances at him. “Guess we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, as someone with a bad back--”

“You’re not getting out of this, and your back is fine,” Patrick tells him. “Which aisle are sofas in?”

“Ten,” David sighs, following him.

They spend the next hour in the warehouse, wrestling with heavy boxes; everything goes well until they reach the coffee table aisle. The coffee table they picked weighs a ton and for some ungodly reason, comes in one long box. 

David huffs, already sore, and stares at it. Patrick lifts one side, then lets it down, breathing out.

“Okay.” He nods, talking himself into it. “We’re both pretty strong.”

David looks at him like he just spoke Russian. “No. No, Patrick, we aren’t. _You_ are. I asked you to open a pickle jar yesterday.”

“You picked me up once.”

“That was during an adrenaline rush and this thing,” he pauses, kicking the box, “weighs more than you do.” 

“Mm.” Patrick considers the box, hands on his hips, then crouches to lift it. “C’mon David. On three.”

“This,” David whispers, crouching too, “is dumb.”

“We just have to get it on the dolly.”

“Well, why didn’t we put this on the bottom?”

“I didn’t realize it was this big--”

“Oh my God. What good is your obsessive planning?”

“David, this store _really_ isn’t bringing out the best in you.”

“Did you think it would?” asks David, shrill. 

“Nope.”

David gets back up and walks away. He returns with another dolly, feeling as out of place as did in Amish country, and parks it by Patrick. 

“If I hurt my back--”

“David. You’re not even 40.”

“My back is older!”

“Okay. Just help me.” 

David crosses his arms, preparing, then crouches with him again. They meet eyes over the box, counting off, and lift it together. They center it over the dolly, almost there, when Patrick drops his side and straightens up, wincing with his hand on his back. The box slips out of David’s grip and sends the dolly careening into a display of lawn chairs.

David’s eyes widen. He jumps away as the chairs crash onto the concrete floor, mouth open, about to snap at Patrick for letting go. But then he sees that Patrick’s in pain, so he pulls Patrick into his arms, checking on him.

Patrick groans faintly. “Might have deserved that."

“Because you doubted my back problems all day?”

Patrick wrinkles his nose, wincing again. “Yep.”

“I would agree, but I’m above that. Are you okay?”

Patrick looks down, closing his eyes. “Yeah, think so. But tonight you’re _my_ massage therapist.”

“Mhm. Do you want the deluxe package?”

Patrick opens one eye, about to answer, but an IKEA attendant appears, staring at the lawn chair carnage. David’s relieved this isn’t the same attendant as earlier -- he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be forgiving. This attendant is an elderly man, a slightly less-skeevy Arthur.

“It wasn’t us,” says David. 

Patrick sighs. “We’ll pay for whatever we broke.”

“Eh. It happens. It’s usually kids, but…”

David nods. “Mhm. We’re young at heart. Could you help me lift this? My husband has a bad back.”

Patrick glares at him and he smiles wickedly. 

“Sure,” says the man, joining them and putting on some leather gloves. “You boys find everything alright?”

“We did fight more than we have in years, but other than that, yes, delightful time,” says David.

“Ah yes,” the guy says. “IKEA was the end of my third marriage. Marlene threw a _lättviktig_ at me.”

 _Third_ , David mouths at Patrick. _Lättviktig,_ Patrick mouths back

“Which is what?” wonders David, helping lift the box onto the dolly.

“Oh, a stoneware baking dish,” says the man, unconcerned.

David glances back at Patrick. _A baking dish!_ Patrick makes a face, trying not to laugh. _Whoa._

“My God, well, thank you for your help,” says David. “We’ll be going before one of us throws any kitchenware.”

The man gives them a thumbs up, then talks into his radio about a clean-up in Aisle 10. David and Patrick meet eyes, both amused, and each grab a dolly to push toward check-out.

“So,” says David, breathy. “Now I think we did very well.”

“Wonder if IKEA has a scale. Like, one means you didn’t fight at all, ten means you chucked a casserole dish at your partner’s head.”

David laughs. Then he glances at Patrick, softening, and says, “And 5 means you were a pain in the ass all day because your partner is always very accommodating and you sometimes take him for granted even though you’d be _literally_ lost without him.”

Patrick looks at him, slowing down, trying not to smile. 

“And before you ask, yes, this is me apologizing.”

Patrick glances down with a surprised chuckle. “Well. You weren’t a pain in the ass _all_ day.” 

“Oh, no, I very much was,” David says, putting an arm around his waist and kissing the side of his head. 

They reach the check-out and Patrick sends David to buy a selection of candies from the Swedish Food Market. (Apparently Roland offered his truck on the condition that they repay him in caramel and jelly drops.) Patrick’s a little too insistent that David doesn’t linger by the check-out, but David doesn’t comment. Patrick, like his parents, isn’t a great liar and David would rather be surprised by whatever he’s up to -- and he’s up to _something_. He has been since he started tallying costs in the cafeteria. David tries not to let his imagination wander as he browses aisles of chewy fruit candies, chocolate-nut bars, potato crisps, toffee...he fills up a basket with whatever his hand stumbles on (everything’s in Swedish, and the English translation is too tiny for anyone to read.) 

He snacks on a bag of moose-shaped _lördagsgodis,_ whatever those are, as he walks back to the check-out. He finds Patrick leaning on a wall near the exit, surrounded by their furniture, including…

The mattress. David stops, looking at Patrick with a delicate expression, a piece of candy halfway to his mouth. Patrick folds his arms and grins, and David falters, eyes bright.

“Um?” he whispers, almost crying as he joins him.

“You were right about the bed,” Patrick says with a shrug.

David runs his hand along the mattress and looks at him. “Is this what you were doing? Making sure we could afford this?”

“Yeah. And we can, as long as we lay off the takeout for a few weeks, and return that juicer you bought.”

David nods. “Mhm. I don’t know why I bought that.”

“You said you wanted to go on a cleanse.”

“How drunk was I?”

“Very.”

David nods again, admiring the mattress. Then he looks at Patrick, tugs him closer, and kisses him hard. Patrick grins on his lips, almost laughing, and kisses him back. 

“Did we spend more than $4600…?” David murmurs after a moment, pulling back with glassy eyes.

“Yeah. $5200. So I guess the first thing we’ll be doing on this…” says Patrick, patting the mattress, “...is watching the movie you pick.”

“Oh, that is not the first thing we’ll be doing,” says David, tugging him back into a kiss.

Patrick laughs. “David.”

“Can I get us kicked out now?” he murmurs. 

“I think you’re about to,” says Patrick, moving David’s hands from his hips. 

“Mhm. I love you,” David replies, taking Patrick’s face in his hands, glancing up at the mattress. “Can we burn the old one?”

“I think we’re required to, by law.”

David grins and chuckles, then looks at Patrick and kisses him again; he keeps him close when they break apart, eyes sparkling. 

“I should really thank Eli because if he hadn’t fucked us over, I would never have been this happy.”

Patrick runs his hands over David’s shoulders and his expression softens to a smile as they meet eyes. 

Then he says, “They have gift cards, we could send him--”

David pushes him away, laughing again. “No.”

Patrick grins and nods, then leans into a last kiss. “Did I surprise you?”

“I knew you were scheming, but yes. Yes you did.”

Patrick shakes his head. “Can’t believe you didn’t figure out I was going to ask you to marry me last year.”

“Oh, I would have if I thought anyone on the planet would actually sign up for a lifetime subscription of…” He gestures at himself. “All this. Also the hike was a very effective decoy.”

Patrick chuckles. “Thought so.” He squeezes David’s hands and looks into his eyes, earnest. “Guess what you get to do now?”

“Mm, what?” David asks, flirtatious, hanging on him. 

Patrick pats his arm. “Load the car."


End file.
